


Three Days At Castle Winterburg

by Odaigahara



Series: discord, i'm howling at the moon [6]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Human, Body Horror, Dramatic Irony, Fairy Tale Retellings, Humor, M/M, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:20:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28326699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Odaigahara/pseuds/Odaigahara
Summary: Logan arrived in Winterburg at sunset, carrying nothing but the clothes on his back and a pack of bare necessities, and made a figurative beeline for the nearest inn. Inns, he had found, were centers of information in nearly every village big enough to have one; they welcomed travelers often, and as such tended to hear the most recent news. It was at an inn that he had first learned of this town, with its haunted castle, and it was at an inn that he would continue his research.The innkeeper, a man with eyes so brown they were almost black and an expression of exhaustion, stared when Logan explained his purpose in visiting.“You’ve never felt fear?” he repeated. “That doesn’t even make sense.”Logan did not roll his eyes, but for a moment he was tempted. “I’m aware,” he said. “That is why I intend to discover a situation that inspires it within me.”
Relationships: Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders/Logic | Logan Sanders
Series: discord, i'm howling at the moon [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1884838
Comments: 34
Kudos: 80
Collections: TSS Fanworks Collective





	1. Day One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [goldenmeme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenmeme/gifts).



> A gift for GoldenMeme!!! I hope the Intrulogical is to your liking, and the next update should come tomorrow.
> 
> Thanks to alicat54c to beta reading.
> 
> TW's at end notes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with fanart!! https://thereibi-art.tumblr.com/post/640055058805997568/double-double-toil-and-void-this-art-is-made-for

Logan arrived in Winterburg at sunset, carrying nothing but the clothes on his back and a pack of bare necessities, and made a figurative beeline for the nearest inn. Inns were centers of information in nearly every village big enough to have one; they welcomed travelers often, and as such tended to hear the most recent news. It was at an inn that he had first learned of this town, with its haunted castle, and it was at an inn that he would continue his research.

The innkeeper, a man with eyes so brown they were almost black and an expression of exhaustion, stared when Logan explained his purpose in visiting.

“You’ve never felt fear?” he repeated. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

Logan did not roll his eyes, but for a moment he was tempted. “I’m aware,” he said, affecting the tone that his friend Patton called _diplomatic_. “That is why I intend to discover a situation that inspires it within me.”

“But you’ve seriously never gotten robbed by highwaymen, or broken a bone, or lost a pet and not known where it went, or been out after dark or attacked by a bear or not attacked by a bear but you knew it was there, watching you--”

“Are these all personal experiences?” Logan asked, deeply curious, and the innkeeper flushed.

“No,” he said unconvincingly. “Shut up. I don’t have to talk to you, do you want a room or not?”

“I would prefer information on the most frightening place in the area, but if you require pay for the distribution of knowledge I would be happy to offer compensation.”

The innkeeper snorted. “So happy you sound like an offended schoolmarm, sure. But whatever, if I don’t tell you someone’s going to-- that castle you saw at the top of the hill, on the way here? It’s super haunted. The baron offers a ton of money to anyone who’ll stay three nights there in a row, but so far everyone’s either shit themselves and run or hasn’t come back at all.”

Logan’s heart leaped. “And it’s truly haunted?” he pressed. “What is the nature of the apparition? Does it seem to interact with physical space, or is it a purely mental affliction? Have any of the attempts resulted in physical injury or inexplicable sickness? Do those that make the attempts stay in town or leave afterwards?”

He meant to continue, but the innkeeper held up his hands as if warding off the sights of a crossbow and said, “Whoa, sheesh, hold on, uh. Lemme think about it.” Logan waited. “Could be haunted, could also be some sort of trick by which the baron lures people and steals their belongings and/or has his soldiers kill them under the guise of ghosts. Think it’s physical, but everyone’s so freaked out when they talk about it that maybe they just thought something touched them, and... no sickness except this one guy collapsing, but I’m pretty sure he was overtaxed and he was unhealthy anyway. Injuries, no idea, but someone fell off a ledge and broke three ribs and both their legs, if that counts.”

“It does not,” Logan said, “but as I was the one who failed to elaborate, you cannot be blamed for the misunderstanding.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“However, the rest of the information is both pertinent and incredibly helpful. Thank you, ah.” Logan squinted at him. “I don’t recall an introduction.”

“Yeah, no, you just barged in and started asking about ghosts and weird psychological issues,” the innkeeper said, and held out a hand for Logan to shake. “I’m Virgil. Might wanna know that if you don’t get scared out of your mind or die a mysterious death.”

“I will endeavor not to do either of those things,” Logan said. “And my name is Logan. It’s nice to meet you, Virgil.”

“Likewise.” Logan turned to leave, and Virgil blurted, “This is the only inn in town.”

Logan turned back, blinking. “I’m aware,” he said.

“And it’s getting dark,” Virgil stressed. “If you go out now you’re just gonna be wandering around in the dark. I don’t care that you’re Mr. Fearless or whatever, you can still twist an ankle or get your throat slit by roving bandits.”

“My surname is not Fearless, and we are in the center of town,” Logan explained. “I’m hardly at risk from, what did you call them, ‘roving bandits,’ and anyway, I do not intend to be outdoors for long. I am going to spend my first night in this so-called haunted castle tonight. Unless there is someone to notify beforehand?”

“What, so you can dictate your will?” Virgil asked, widening his eyes. “No, there’s people who’ll see you going in, it’ll be pretty obvious. Not like we get a lot of strangers trying for the money anymore, after Legs Guy. But I seriously think you should reconsider. Even if you don’t feel fear, that doesn’t mean they can’t kill you if it’s a scam. Are you even armed?” Logan opened his mouth, and Virgil bristled. “ _Don’t answer that_. For all you know, I could be an informant. Everyone here could be. Your movements are probably being watched at all times. Don’t give information to the _enemy.”_

“You’ve offered _me_ information,” Logan pointed out, miffed, and Virgil sighed.

“Yeah, but, like. You’re not my enemy, but I could be yours. So you should be careful.”

“I will make every effort to do so,” Logan said, choosing to categorize the rest of the exchange as a quirk of the innkeeper’s personality as opposed to expressions of fact, and went to the door.

Before he could leave, Virgil called, “You can’t leave once you get in unless you’re leaving permanently or it’s been three days. Even if it’s daylight. So far I haven’t seen anyone get another chance.”

Logan took that in, inclined his head, and went up to the castle. Above him the sky shaded from bluish-purple to the darkness of clouded ink, obscuring the stars, and a faint drizzle dusted his cloak like a breath of cold. Logan was relieved to pull open the barred double doors of the castle lobby and step out of the damp.

The main hall’s decor didn't seem to have changed since the Middle Ages, being furnished in tattered tapestries and old, solid oak tables, but Logan spied hints of activity in the refuse strewn across the table: a torn-up saddle pack, a scattered deck of cards, and a flask, which had left a dark patch on the table surface from its spilled contents.

The high ceiling was the point of interest. Some reigning noble had given in to trend and had it whitewashed and painted with flowers and cherubs, circling a gold-garnished central point. Lack of upkeep had taken its toll, cracking the paint and fading pinks to beige and beige to dull, dark off-white, but Logan could make out the design if he squinted.

Fascinating. He wondered how long the castle had held its haunted reputation, and whether anyone had chosen to live there despite it. 

Logan barred the door behind him so the wind would not push it open, then took off his cloak and hung it over the back of a large cushioned chair to dry. His pack he placed on the table. After a moment of deliberation, he took out a lump of hardtack and gnawed on it, casting a curious eye around the entryways to the other parts of the castle. 

Late autumn meant the cold of winter was only a premonition on the air. Despite this, the castle held an incredible chill. If Logan did not wish to wear heavy clothes for the next three days and nights, or if he wished to relax at all, he would have to find a hearth or brazier. Also, firewood.

Logan hefted his pack again and headed down the farthest hall to the right.

It took forty minutes for him to find a fireplace. By the time he did, the night’s cold had seeped through the stone and under his skin, pulling puffs of condensation from his mouth. The castle remained eerily silent, bereft of life; Logan’s footsteps clattered out echoes in front of him, movement stirring the dilapidated tapestries on the walls. 

The fireplace was at the end of a smaller room, with a collection of chairs and a table settled over a moth-eaten bear pelt. There was a dusty checkers board on the table, flanked by two handprints, and a pile of firewood in one cobwebbed corner. Logan surmised that it must have been left by previous participants and perked up. 

Humming to himself, he dropped his bag on one of the chairs, took out his flint to set a fire crackling, and settled by the table with a journal and calligraphy pen to wait. He had nothing in particular to write about, but remembered seeing some intriguing fungal blooms on his way up to town. He sketched them by the light of the fire.

Logan had been inside for a relaxing three hours before the first unusual event occurred.

A low groan emerged from the darkest corner of the room, utterly inhuman. Logan sat straighter, squinting, but couldn’t make out any shapes. 

Very well. Logan sat back and waited, trying not to grin. He had a cravat. Serious people wore cravats and did not smile at possible hauntings, especially when they intended to become soldiers in order to support their families and only wished to learn fear beforehand so that they could more efficiently survive in battle. The seconds inched along.

Another groan, this time rumbling so low it shook Logan’s bones. His heart leaped. “I’m cold,” rasped a voice, rattling with strain. “I’m so cold. So _fucking_ cold.”

Logan cocked his head, wondering if he should respond. Common wisdom claimed that responding to a spirit would give it power, but curiosity pushed him to gain as much information as he could. The question was: would speech alone truly cause the being to harm him, or did harm rely on the being’s ability to convince him of one assertion or another? For all Logan knew, it was not a ghost at all but a human being, hidden behind the wall or throwing their voice.

So many variables. Logan didn't know where to begin.

“Please,” whispered the voice. “I’m so fucking cold.”

Logan really couldn’t see a shape in the shadows. “If you are cold, it stands to reason that you should approach the fire for warmth,” he finally said. “Is there a reason you insist on remaining in a dark, dusty corner instead of sitting by the hearth?”

Silence. Logan shrugged to himself and returned to his notebook.

After a moment, a dark form slunk out of the darkness and flowed onto the chair across from Logan at the table: a gray cat, long-furred and matted, with the darkest green eyes Logan had ever seen on a living thing.

“Huh,” said the cat, in tones of surprise. “It _is_ warmer here.” It kneaded the seat and curled its legs under it, settling into the shape of a loaf. The low table meant its ears could barely be seen over the edge. 

Logan asked eagerly, “Would you happen to be a spirit or other apparition?” 

“One of the above, sure,” the cat said, pricking its ears. “Since I’m a talking cat and shit. Super spooky. I’m gonna get all huge next and invite like a million other cats and dogs here and they’ll all be black like church grims and we’ll eat you, how’s that for an apparition? I’m gonna feast on your entrails. I’ll eat you, _then_ kill you.”

“If your threats are in earnest, it would make much more sense for me to attempt to kill you now,” Logan said, reaching for the knife in his boot, “since I am only here to experience fear, as opposed to death or maiming. Are you proposing such a conflict?”

“So what if I am?” The cat yawned, and did not seem too inclined to grow gigantic and go through on its threats. “‘Less you can think of something more interesting than indiscriminate violence.” It sat up, stretched, briefly attacked its tail, and stared at the checkers board for a straight four minutes. Logan counted the seconds with his pocket watch.

The action percolated through the solvent of Logan’s mind and slowly collected at the center of his thoughts, where it formed a nonverbal social hint and coalesced into something with meaning. “Ah,” Logan said in realization. “Do you wish to play checkers?”

The cat did, in fact, wish to play checkers. Logan settled in to play with the spirit, moving the creature’s pieces for it due to its lack of opposable thumbs, and won within five minutes through a fortunate conjunction of diagonal pieces.

“Another round?” Logan asked smugly, and the cat acquiesced. Then it lost again, knocked over the board, and ran into the fireplace in a flood of smoke. 

Logan waited, but the apparition didn’t reappear. Then he dragged a bed from another room close to the hearth, for warmth, and went to sleep.

At some point in the night the bed began to shake and run about the room. Logan circumvented the problem by taking the blankets over to the chairs and sleeping there, instead.


	2. Day Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The spirit returns! Also, Logan explores.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW's at end notes.

Logan spent the majority of the next day exploring those parts of the castle he’d disregarded the day before. The castle had clearly been abandoned for a long time-- he found layers of dust in all corners, moths in the stored linens, bats in one high tower with a broken window-- but what interested him as he explored was that it had been abandoned _hurriedly_.

The kitchens held desiccated meats and fruits, rotted to bone and black smears. The braziers held gray, powdery coal. The servants’ quarters, infested as they were, had blankets and bedsheets strewn wildly about, and the guards’ barracks-- Logan came dangerously close to leaving the castle here, but found a training ground only accessible from within, with barracks adjacent-- had weapons cast on the ground, or left beside old bottles of polish. 

Logan paused at the training courtyard, enjoying the outdoors, but refused to dither; he had to explore more before nightfall, and besides, it was cold. The Sun could only be sensed through a thick layer of clouds, and the previous night’s drizzle had never properly let up.

Remaining outside gave him a chill that he imagined was something like shivering in fright.

 _That_ thought bolstered him to return inside-- to the haunted, _terrifying_ castle, which no local or traveler had borne for more than two nights. 

_Fear!_

An essential human emotion-- an instinctual reaction to threat-- a release of adrenaline and cortisol that increased the heartbeat, quickened the breath, expanded the pupils of the eyes-- that made one impervious to pain and respondent to stimuli, and tricked individuals into feats of hysterical strength by convincing them, in times of need, to _ignore their bodies' warnings_ \--

Logan had observed fear a hundred times. He had seen a woman scream as her child ran into the street. He had watched a cat spit to intimidate a dog. He had witnessed a group of bandits surround a caravan and force its merchants to the ground with crossbows at their heads to steal the merchandise they carried. 

The merchants had shaken. They had covered their heads and necks, curling up on the ground to minimize their bodies’ surface area. Their eyes had gone so wide as to show the whites, muffled voices turning high and babbling, and the one parent among them had sheltered his child at his breast.

Logan had been ten years old. He had not been able to help. Now, he was sure that his own reactions would have been detrimental at best.

Fear had kept those merchants alive. It had primed them for action. 

Logan had no basis for comparison, but _God_ did he want one.

He reentered the castle, wiping off the condensation that had coalesced on his glasses, and went to explore the dungeons. He had seen everything else.

The entrance to the dungeons was difficult to find. Logan discovered it through trial and error behind a tapestry-- a man fighting a lion, a common artistic motif of the time-- and bounced in place once he had, satisfied joy bubbling up within him like a chemical reaction. Using clues to arrive at results was the _hallmark_ of the enlightened sciences.

The doors of the dungeon presented a second challenge, but Logan retrieved a piece of metal piping from the kitchens and levered them open with the application of torque, so it was hardly insurmountable. The next step was to acquire a light and descend the stairs, and he had a lantern with him. 

The stairs were winding and choked with dust. Logan held his lantern out before him, but the darkness smothered the light as it reached ahead; he had to step carefully, surveying the stone before him, or risk catching his ankle in the pitted rock. Logan was covered in dust himself by the time he reached the dungeon proper. He had to wipe his glasses again to clear them.

The dungeon cells were disappointingly prosaic. Logan saw simple benches and rust-eaten bars, some divots in the ground in lieu of chamberpots and a smattering of chains on the walls, but there were no bodies, and hardly any interesting graffiti within the cells. What graffiti there was fell firmly in the category of _vague and useless,_ delivering as it did no information about the individual occupants at all.

_Dies irae, dies illa solvet saeculum in favilla_

_GOD SAVE US GOD SAVE US GOD SAVE US GOD SAVE US GOD SAVE US_

_The word they spoke the word they spake it the word the word_

The sole interesting inscription was hidden on the underside of a bench in the final cell, which alone contained a hint of biological material in the form of what appeared to be a human scalp. The hair was faded gray and cloudy by time, the skin dried to the touch and crusted dark. It said:

_I will not listen I have not listened to listen is Power it knows its power I ignore and it remains it watches it waits and breathes my fear but I do not listen o fortuna what terrible things it says and i must hear them but i should not i do not listen_

_Without ears I cannot listen_

_Without eyes I cannot see_

_Without nose I cannot smell the blood_

_Without tongue I taste it not_

_O my god please forgive me but the pictures in my head! I cannot abide the pictures in my head! Such terrible things they wright in me, and it watches it eats it waits and takes its forms and waits and_ **_speaks it always speaks o cruel fortuna its LAUGHTER_ **

_Without ears I cannot listen--_

Logan scanned the rest of the carved words, but they all seemed repetitious of the same theme. After the nonsensical rambling about laughter, the cell’s occupant had become intent on repeating the same obvious facts about the senses and where in the body they were contained. 

Logan wondered for a moment whether they had simply forgotten touch, temperature perception, proprioception, and the other, less noticeable senses of the body, but eventually attributed the lapse to loss of reason. Clearly the cell’s former occupant had spent too long in captivity. 

After the final cell there was another, larger chamber, closed off by a thick metal lock. Logan had to retreat to the training yard for a large rock, which he used to bash off the hinges so the door would crash to the ground. 

The impact threw up a cloud of dust; Logan waited, coughing and wiping his running eyes, until it settled; then he entered, felt his foot hit something on the ground, and froze. 

The floor of the final chamber was littered with corpses.

Their hands lay outstretched toward the door, mummified and beseeching; their pitted, desiccated skulls gaped jawless and grimacing; their legs and finger joints and third ribs (Logan counted) were sharpened and driven into the ceiling as if amputated and made into inexplicably durable weaponry. Brown stains covered the stone floor, interrupted here and there by darker brown and the black of ink. Logan traced the elaborate circle on the ground with raised eyebrows, committing the pattern to memory, and returned to his examination of the bodies.

The mutilation had occurred before the time of death. Several of the skeletons were clutching mangled skulls or limbs, and a majority had clustered near the door in an attempt to escape. A few were pulled apart completely, one with each bone laid out side-by-side like a two-dimensional diagram of human anatomy, but those were in the minority. From the amount of skulls present, Logan estimated the original amount of occupants at twelve-- and hypothesized that none of them had been the murderer of the others. 

None of them had been prisoners, either, except perhaps for one pitiful body in the center of the circle. That body looked to have died by knife: Logan revised his theory to allow for one murderer among the group, which likely made the rest of them accomplices, and felt a thrill of excitement at the discovery. 

He investigated the rest of the chamber; then, for completeness’s sake (and curiosity’s, naturally), he spat into his hand and sprinkled saliva on the ground. The faint coppery scent of blood wafted up from the damp. 

“Spitting on peoples’ corpses? Sheesh, Soldier Boy, that’s a hell of a desecration. Aren’t you worried they’ll come back and haunt you?”

Logan whirled around to see a tall, broad-shouldered man blocking the door. His skin was pale to the point of blueness, hair brown and scraggly; he wore rancid greens and blacks, and had viciously sharp teeth below his mustache. The man’s eyes were a dark weedy green.

He cast no shadow, but the lantern guttered when he stepped in, darkness rushing close to seal out the light. Logan stood in the center of the summoning circle, surrounded by withered agonized corpses, alone in the dark with the smell of massacre rising from the ground and a fanged man blocking his only exit, and said honestly, “Not particularly. Are you the cat?”

The man cocked his head, manic grin splitting his cheeks like crumbling wood. “Do I look like a fucking cat to you?”

“Are you the apparition who previously appeared in the form of a cat?” Logan amended, frowning at his lantern. 

The flame had not recovered, so the light the lantern cast was dimmer than a single candle. The shadows it cast formed faces with distended jaws that gnawed at Logan’s feet. He could feel the teeth digging into his ankles, irritatingly enough; Logan glared and kicked the shadows off.

The apparition said, “I’m the darkest thoughts you’ve ever had.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m evil,” the being breathed, suddenly behind Logan’s shoulder. Its exhale reeked of meat and brine. “I’m how you dissected the cat after it died, how you wanted to kill it to see its insides earlier. How you’re going to trip and break your neck on the way out of here.” A clammy hand wound around his neck. “You really think you’re getting out of here? You’re going to die down here with all of them, and someone’s gonna come in when you’re almost dead but not quite to cut off all your fingers, torture you while you’re helpless and screaming so you _wish_ you’d die alone--”

“Please refrain from speaking directly into my ear,” Logan snapped, batting it away. The being recoiled like a rebuffed house cat.

“I’m gonna tear out your intestines and spill them all over your chest as I devour them.”

It made no move to attack, so Logan relaxed from his tense posture almost immediately. “You require sustenance? I was under the impression that no one had ever died in undertaking this challenge.” He paused, then added, “And that the supernatural occurrences only began after nightfall.” 

“The Sun’s set,” the being said, and cackled. “Stormclouds covered up the twilight. You’re stuck here with me, Soldier Boy.”

Logan hadn’t realized he’d spent so long exploring. He hadn’t noticed how his breath had started to condense, either, as the night’s chill crept in; clearly he would have to relight the hearth, and quickly, to avoid hypothermia. 

He stepped past the apparition, heading for the dungeon stairs. 

The being snarled and slammed him against the wall, setting his ears ringing. “Didn’t you hear me?” it demanded. “I said you’re _stuck with me--”_

Logan headbutted it in the nose, then twisted out of its loosened grip and dashed for the stairs. Without his lantern navigation was difficult, but he recalled the way, and his eyes had adjusted to the dark; he reached the tapestry and stumbled through it, landing jarringly on his knees, and the creature said from in front of him: “Holy shit, did you just headbutt me?”

Logan glared at it, panting on the ground. His glasses had been knocked askew. “You just informed me of your desire to _eat me.”_

“Maybe I’m already eating you,” said the apparition, and Logan sucked in a breath, suddenly tasting moist, meaty air. Like the inside of an esophagus. His sight wavered, night-cloaked stones seeming to pulse like peristaltic muscles. “I ate you down there in the dungeons. I devoured you piece by piece and took your memory with me, and tore your ligaments from the bones to swallow them before the rest of you.”

Logan looked down at his arms and legs, imagining he felt a twinge of pain where his muscles had reportedly been detached. His body appeared whole, and the air did not feel humid when he breathed through his mouth; as such, the scent was likely illusory. He had heard that ghosts could fool the senses. 

Logically, if he had been eaten, he would not be able to rescue himself from the predicament-- and yet, he had not noticed any devouring at all. As such, he was either doomed or had not been injured in the first place. His behavior didn’t need to change.

He pushed the being aside and went back to the hearth room. It trailed after him, blurting out gore and lust like some bizarre fountain. “I’m gonna crunch your bones and suck the marrow of your eyes,” it said as Logan rekindled the hearth. “Gonna make you fall in and catch fire, hold you down like I’m drowning you except the _fire’s_ killing you instead of the ocean. Flames will eat away your flesh!”

The fire roared to merry life. Logan sat back on his heels. “Who convinced you that eyes have _marrow?”_

“Don’t they?”

“No.” Logan stood, stretched, and returned to the notebook he’d left the night before. The being was in the chair it had claimed before, but the pages of the notebook had been bitten and torn, painstakingly illustrated mushrooms defaced with drawings of corpses and grimacing faces. Logan stiffened. “Did you--”

“I like art,” the being said. “You aren’t even real. I created you to torment you for all eternity, and you’re living the same three days over and over again, so soon I’ll get to turn you inside out and pick off all your organs like a buffet! You’ll scream the whole time. Or not. You’ll be inside out so they’ll be weird gurgling sounds, and then you’ll die. Then I’ll meet you _again.”_

“You did not create me,” Logan said, shoving his notebooks back into his pack. He shuddered to imagine what the creature might have done to the _rest_ of the pages. 

“Yeah, okay.” Another tilt of its head. “You’re a soldier.”

Logan nodded.

“Why?”

“I require money,” Logan said, “and possess many of the necessary skills.”

“So you’re throwing your life away for that, huh.” The apparition grinned again, visage suddenly dripping with blood. It poured from its wounds in gushes, spreading across the floor with wet plops, viscera weeping from open gashes in coils of bone and intestine. Slowly, the apparition’s anatomy was turning inside out. Fascination swiftly overshadowed Logan’s disgust. 

“You know you’re gonna die,” the spirit said. Logan rolled his eyes; that was obvious enough. “You’re gonna get killed as a soldier. You’ll never see any of that money. Your family could starve while you’re gone, or could’ve died in a fire last night while you were here pressing your luck. They could die while you’re on campaign. Or you could come back maimed and crippled and _useless--”_

 _“That_ is unnecessarily negative and prejudicial,” Logan snapped, “and I fail to see what entertainment you find in listing possible courses of events. Are you really under the impression that I’m enough of a shortsighted idiot that I’ve never contemplated my own death? Pitiful. That doesn’t even make sense. Every living being eventually dies.”

“And it scares them,” the apparition said with relish. “It scares _you_ just thinking of it.”

Logan stared. “No, it does not. Nothing has, for as long as I have been able to form conscious memory. That is why I chose to undertake this challenge before reporting to a recruitment station.”

“Huh. So you’re never scared?”

“I literally just imparted this information, how many times must I _repeat--”_

“So you wanna play checkers?”

Logan pinched the bridge of his nose. Then he sat down and played a round of checkers, which the apparition actually won.

Then they played two more rounds, which Logan won, though one was unacceptably close to a tie.

“So why do you wanna feel fear?” the ghost asked after that, lounging upside down in the cushioned chair across from Logan. Its feet kicked aimlessly in the air. Logan couldn’t see its face. “I mean, I want you to feel it ‘cause then I could drink the marrow of your brain and shit, but fuck me if I can understand your point of view.”

“Brains do not have marrow either,” Logan corrected irritably, “and fear has a multitude of uses. It quickens reflexes, for one.”

“Yeah, unless you’re shitting yourself too much to use ‘em.”

“It causes the release of adrenaline, which dilates blood vessels, increases lung capacity, lets individuals access pools of hysterical strength that they would otherwise ignore due to fear of bodily injury-- not to _mention_ its effects on consideration of choices, which is both important for self-preservation and understanding the choices of others--”

“Fuck, okay! I guess I see your point.” 

“You can’t see anything,” Logan pointed out. “Your eyes are on the level of the side of the table.”

“I can see your _lap,”_ the apparition said. “Which basically means I can see your dick.” It turned itself upright, twisting its head three hundred and sixty degrees before staring into Logan’s eyes. “So do you wanna be scared? You want me to scare you?”

“I would like to understand the sensation of fear,” Logan corrected, and stood to continue speaking-- but the spirit was pressing him into the chair before he could, knees straddling his legs, hot and close. Logan froze.

“You want me to terrify you?” the apparition breathed, teeth expanding in its mouth until they filled every corner, the roof and tongue and cheeks all sharp and ready. “To make you piss your pathetic trousers?”

“Preferably not that last one,” Logan managed. He stared up at the creature, painfully aware of the vulnerability of his throat, and swallowed against the odd feeling that awareness stirred in him. The being’s eyes followed the motion, dilating.

“I could tear out your throat,” the creature said, “right here. You know that? I can make you _scream.”_

Logan’s breath came short. The apparition shot forward and fixed its teeth at Logan’s neck, so close to the jugular it made him whine, an unfamiliar twist in his stomach that had to be fear, that made him more aware than he’d ever been in his _life_ except for--

“Wait,” Logan said in disappointment. The ghost drew back, drawing a tongue across its lips. “This is not inspiring fear.”

“You sure?” the apparition asked, shoulders sagging. “Your heart was totally fast right there. Breathing got weird, too.” It paused, then perked up. “Unless you mean--”

“Arousal,” Logan groaned. “Similar in some of its symptoms, but serving an entirely different biological function. Clearly this course of experimentation will be fruitless.”

“I dunno, I think we could try experimentation a little more,” the ghost recommended. “Produce a whole bunch of fruits in sexy and explicit ways. Maybe afterwards you’ll get scared of losing your virtue and not landing a good marriage.” 

“How would fruits be produced by copulation? Fruits are produced by plants in order to spread zygotes using animals as vehicles.”

“Sometimes I wonder if I could get you to understand figurative language if I wrote down the definition and shoved it so far down your throat it ended up digesting in your small intestine,” the ghost said. “And by ‘sometimes’ I mean right now. Gimme some paper.”

Logan clutched his pack to him protectively. “Under _no circumstances_. _”_

“Fine, whatever. Hey, what’s your name?”

Logan opened his mouth, then closed it, thought, and asked, “Are you of the class of beings that is purported to use the names of others to gain power over them?”

“Fuck if I know,” the apparition said, resting its chin on its hand. “Maybe?”

Logan considered. “What color is the sky? Untruthful answers only.”

“Green,” the ghost said at once. “White. Red! Wait, it can be all of these things, uh, polka-dotted and striped at the same time like a dilettante who wants to wear all fashions at once.”

“That last assertion is untrue,” Logan said smugly, “and as you know it is untrue and are still able to relate it, you are not one of the Fair Folk. My name is Logan.”

“Logan!” The apparition looked delighted. “Bro-gan. Broken, that’s what, a consonant away? _Lovin’_. I’m pretty sure my name is Remus.”

“Like the murdered founder of Rome?”

“Yeah! Probably I murdered him. Definitely not though, I’ve been stuck here forever. When was Rome?”

“Significantly more than two hundred years ago, which seems to be about the time that this castle was abandoned. Why are you stuck here?”

“Circle in the dungeons. Weird they managed to corner me with a shape with no corners. I’d get mad at ‘em for taking sides, but circles don’t have any of those, either.” Logan eye twitched. “Hey, you wanna play cards?”

“I have no objections,” Logan said, putting the constant specter of _puns_ from his mind, and in that manner the rest of the night passed rather pleasantly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: body horror, sexual language (not a large amount), past massacre, implied mental breakdown of minor characters, one mention of ableism, slight sexuality, mentioned animal death


	3. Day Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The innkeeper comes with a warning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW's at end notes
> 
> Thanks to alicat54c for beta reading!!

On the third day, Logan woke to find Remus’s face inches from his own. “Please refrain from hovering over the mattress while I am on it.”

“There’s a guy outside,” Remus said brightly, ignoring Logan’s attempt to push him away. His hair was soaked with blood, matted to his skull; his jaw hung by sinews from his cheeks, letting his tongue loll. Logan gave him a confused look-- _why--_ and the apparition’s face restructured itself. “Wanna bet someone assumed you left? Didn’t think they let more than one person in at once.”

“There was no one stopping me from entering,” Logan said, thinking back, “and no guards that would have stopped a second person, either. For all we know, this could be another challenger.” 

“You should duel him to the death. Or lure him in here!”

Logan pulled on his shirt and put his hair into some semblance of order, feeling around for his glasses. Remus handed them to him covered in beetles; he brushed them off, wondering at their vibrant red carapaces, and said, “I was under the impression that you could only manifest after sundown. Unless it’s storming again?”

“Got it in one, Soldier Boy! You should get a gambling addiction. Then get married, lose your wife’s dowry, end up in the poorhouse doing grunt work for assholes, die of tuberculosis... you know how it goes. But it all starts with a roll of the dice.”

“Induction from given clues is not a _roll of the dice_ ,” Logan huffed, and stood to stretch. The apparition watched him with a grin, chewing absently on his own hand. 

The entrance to the castle looked no different than it had the day before, with the exception of the moved deck of cards. Logan strode to the doors, tugging his cravat straight.

“Hey, so are you gonna--”

He opened the doors and recoiled from a hail of sharp, windblown rain. 

Virgil the innkeeper had been waiting at the entrance. He snapped, huddled into himself against the gusts, “Took you long enough!”

“Virgil?” Logan had to shout to be heard over the storm. The sky was grayed over, light crushed by the storm; he saw lightning Lichtenburg across the smudgy clouds behind Virgil, making him flinch. 

“I can’t believe you’re actually still alive,” the innkeeper said, crowding into the sparse cover of the doorway. He was nearly a head shorter than Logan, hunched even smaller because of the rain. Logan wondered whether the other man fully understood the risk of illness from immune system depression. Cold, wet temperatures were not a joke. Was he even thinking of his health?

“Whatever,” Virgil continued, heedless of Logan’s musings, “not the point-- you need to get out _now.”_

Logan moved aside to motion him in. Virgil hissed, drawing his cloak closer around him like a funeral shroud. Logan stared at him. “Did you just _hiss_ at me?” At Virgil's glare, he amended, “Never mind, my next question is much more important: _why?”_

“Because,” Virgil snapped, “the baron is here. No one’s ever lasted more than one night, and now that someone has, he’s _here._ You know what that means?”

“That he intends to give me a great deal of money in accordance with the rules of the challenge?” 

“That he’s _pissed!”_ Thunder crashed overhead. Virgil yelped, ducking down to cover his head, and Logan looked up squinting into the rain. The water stung his face. “Look, Logan, I don’t think he’s good for the money. He brought a bunch of men and bought out every room at the inn, actually he didn’t buy them out at all, he just said I had to quarter them like I don’t need my inn for, you know, _livelihood,_ but my point is there’s no reason to bring so many people unless he thinks he’ll _need_ them.”

“He believes he’ll need several guardsmen to intimidate one traveler?”

Virgil glowered. The rain plastered his bangs against his forehead, giving him a uniquely ghoulish appearance. “People in town are saying you’re a _warlock_ ,” he hissed. “Which, whatever, do whatever feels right I guess, not like I give a shit, but you seem like a _cool_ idiot at least, so I’m giving you a warning. It’s up to you whether to think I’m lying, but if you don’t come out before nightfall, there’s no way the baron’s not gonna take that as confirmation. He doesn’t want to give you the money. He’ll kill you first and make it look legitimate.”

“But why?” Logan pressed. “If he’s offering the reward--”

More thunder. Virgil flinched, glancing behind himself at the tenuous path up the hill with wide, frightened eyes. “His father started it. He’s not the one who came up with it. But he can’t get rid of it, so the next best thing is making sure _no one gets this far._ Capisce?”

“Yes,” Logan said, and felt his heart quicken. “How many men?”

“Twelve, plus the baron, but he’s not coming near this place,” Virgil said automatically, then froze. “You’re not seriously staying. Even if you magically beat him in a fight, which hey, maybe you are a warlock, he’s _not gonna pay up.”_

“I am becoming a soldier to make money,” Logan said. “It was never my objective here. My goal here is to learn _fear_.” The rain came down in piercing streams, sometimes driven sideways into their faces by the wind. Logan barely noticed, entranced by the strategy he’d need to face a dozen men. If he could lure them into the castle-- if they were more fearful than sensible, as humans so often _were_ \-- “Being accosted alone by a hostile group often inspires fear, doesn’t it?”

“Because of extreme risk of death, sure!” Virgil glared at Logan, rain-battered and bedraggled. “You’re going to die, don’t you get that? Fearless doesn’t mean _immortal.”_

“I intend to remain for the full three days,” Logan said, fighting the grin threatening to break out on his face. A chance for _real fear_. A chance for _combat_ fear. Fortune, figuratively speaking, was smiling upon him. “Thank you very much for the warning, Virgil. If you require compensation--”

“Try not to die,” Virgil snapped, stepping back from the castle entrance like it might lash out and drag him in. He disappeared into the downpour before Logan could respond.

He shut and barred the castle doors. “It’s morning,” he said to the waiting apparition, and Remus cocked his head, standing in the corner where the flashing lightning couldn’t reach. “It’s likely that they won’t approach until nightfall. Are they aware of your existence?”

“Sure, sort of,” Remus said with a shrug. “Never saw ‘em personally, but there’s no way that baron guy hasn’t even heard I’m here. They have to know someone freaks out whoever comes in here, right?”

“But he doesn’t know your capabilities.”

“What _are_ my capabilities? Can you tell me about them, Soldier Boy?”

Logan shrugged, stepping over to his pack, and withdrew a flintlock pistol. Remus squealed and slithered over, wrapping his arms around Logan’s neck, and an odd shiver ran through him at the contact. No one had ever touched him before, really; no one except for Patton, who touched everyone, and even then left a space between them that empathy could never fill. Logan had never been met with _fascination,_ once he admitted to his lack of fear. 

“Would you like to play cards?” he asked after checking his pistol. “I don’t believe I’ll need to make preparations for another hour or so, and I may as well eat beforehand.”

“Only if we play blackjack,” Remus said, grinning. “I fucking love blackjack.”

“You didn’t know how to play it until yesterday.”

“It’s a new love! Passionate. Masturbatory, even.”

“As long as it isn’t masturbatory _on the cards,”_ Logan said, and was rewarded with an inhuman grin.

The day passed slowly, shepherded by faint thunder and wind through the walls. Logan familiarized himself with the castle layout, barring other entryways and ensuring the front gates were secure; Remus assured him that the baron almost certainly knew of other entrances, but didn’t volunteer what they might be. 

That was all right with Logan. Someone in the guards' barracks had left a store of _gunpowder_. 

Virgil was correct that dying would be ill-advised. The difference in their opinions was that Logan didn’t anticipate the eventuality.

Remus had proven a singularly ineffective foe, unable to cause more than rudimentary illusions. That was irrelevant.

If it came to it, Logan could do enough defending for both of them.

He settled in the hearth room, pistol in his lap, and listened past the crackling of the fire for footsteps in the hall. He could see the entrances to the room; he knew which ways the exits led, and what he had left there in turn. Remus sat beneath the table as a cat, jagged-clawed.

He heard the footsteps before he saw them. The baron’s men entered the room in pairs, uniformed and armed with bayonets.

Twelve of them, as Virgil had said. 

“Salutations,” Logan said, standing for politeness’ sake. He left the pistol on the arm of the chair, within easy reach. “I was under the impression that I would not receive the prize until the third night had passed.”

“That won’t be possible,” the guard commander said. Logan assumed he was their commander, anyway; his uniform was different from that of the others, and they looked to him, clustered around him like planetoids. “Herr Baron made it clear in his challenge that cheating was not to be tolerated.”

“Cheating?” Logan adjusted his glasses, staring blankly. Of all the accusations he’d anticipated, foul play was not one of them. “What grounds does the baron have to accuse me of that? I haven’t left the castle since I entered.”

“And yet the townspeople call you a warlock,” the guard commander said forbiddingly. His men shuffled around him, effectively flanking Logan and Remus both. He nudged a foot under the table for the apparition and came up with empty air. 

“Even if I were a warlock, I don’t recall a prohibition against the use of magic.”

One of the guardsmen raised his bayonet, blade glinting in the dull firelight. “Witchcraft is outlawed on these lands,” the commander snapped with a jerk of his head. The guardsmen stiffened, shifting, and Logan put his weight on the balls of his feet. “If you won’t leave the castle willingly, we will assume that you intend to resist.”

Logan calculated trajectories in his head. The shadows formed fluttering eyes on the walls, out of the guards' line of sight. One of them winked. “What will that entail?”

“The penalty for witchcraft within the barony is death,” the lead guardsman said. To his credit, he appeared slightly apologetic. 

“Ah. Very well.” Logan surveyed the soldiers, noting the whites of their eyes, the quiver in the left man’s hands, the divot a bullet had taken out of another one’s ear. For some bizarre reason his prolonged calm had disturbed them. “In that case, I do not intend to leave. Herr Baron may choose not to compensate me if he wishes.”

This was irrelevant, of course. The townspeople would see that he had lasted three days if he came out only on the fourth, and would likely press their baron to pay him in order to avoid a curse. Nonsensical, but the baron would not take the loss of wealth lightly. Logan didn’t expect the guardsmen to listen to reason.

The commander sighed, waving a hand. His men raised their guns. 

Logan grabbed his pistol and ran. 

Two exits from the hearth room. He took the second and heard a bluster of bullets behind him, throwing dust and rubble from the walls. A shard of rock glanced a hot trail across his cheek, but he couldn’t stop to assess the damage; he was running, and behind him already was a clatter of pursuit. He had to treat this occasion as seriously as he would if he were afraid.

Disappointing, that terror wouldn’t materialize; even now, Logan felt nothing but irritation and thrilled excitement. He would have to analyze what was lacking in the situation later, if he survived.

Logan counted his steps, boots slapping against the stone floor, then turned back and fired, making the guardsmen flinch back into formation. 

The first bullet missed entirely, the second lodging itself in a guard’s chest. The third turned the hallway into a firestorm.

Storing gunpowder in a spare alcove had been the _best_ idea.

Logan threw himself to the side, covering his eyes and face, and felt a wave of heat flow past him. He patted out a fire at the cuff of his pants and darted towards the dungeon entrance, affording himself only a single look back as the smoke cleared.

Part of the hallway had collapsed. He’d split the pursuit, but the remaining seven were quickly regrouping. Logan couldn’t pause to celebrate his success. 

Ducking behind the tapestry muted the acrid gunpowder smell, at least. Logan took the stairs at a run, trusting in memory where his eyesight failed, and found himself among the dungeon cells. “Remus?”

The apparition coalesced behind him, and Logan relaxed at once. His heartbeat was elevated from exertion, face slightly flushed. _Still_ nothing like fear. “I like that trick with the gunpowder! Very bloody. You burned two people to death!”

“Are you willing to cause a distraction?” Logan asked, checking over his pistol. Only three more shots. He would have to take one of the bayonets if he wanted to eliminate the rest. 

The guardsmen arrived before Remus could answer. Logan met them in the final chamber, surrounded by shriveled, grimacing corpses, and said, “I really would prefer to be left alone.”

“How did you know to set that trap?” the commander demanded. His face was flushed, one side of his skull wet and red; one of the other four was cradling his arm. If the commander had meant to show mercy before, Logan doubted he was considering it any longer. “You _are_ a warlock, to know such things-- or you were warned by a traitor who knew already. Were you?” 

The world sharpened to a single point. 

The guardsmen weren’t firing yet, too disturbed by the corpses. The commander’s eyes were dark, set deep in his face. 

“Are traitors also put to death?” Logan asked.

“Take a guess,” the commander snarled, raising his gun. Logan jerked up his pistol and fired, once twice _again_ , but only two of the guardsmen fell, and one of them kept breathing. Not enough. At most he had a _moment_ to dodge--

But the hearth roared to life behind him before he could, warm and comfortable as a late winter evening. The commander flinched back. “Witchcraft!”

Logan didn’t answer. He stepped back towards the hearth, flicking his eyes to the fallen guard’s dropped bayonet, and waited. 

“What is this? You filthy warlock, you charlatan, how did you make this _illusion?"_

Logan opened his mouth, meaning to explain that he hadn’t made anything, and something thumped down the illusory chimney, rolling out of the flames and landing at their feet. It was a head and shoulders, arms wrapped around the amputated torso, with a very familiar grin. 

“ _He_ hasn’t done anything!” the apparition shrieked. “Except not get me the rest of my body. Where are my legs, assholes?”

The guards riddled him with bullets, filling the room with gunpowder, but the ghost laughed all the way through it. The room fluxed into the dungeon chamber, then back to the hearth room in a twisted haze. Logan dived for the bayonet and fired a shot back, making the injured guard jerk and fall. Four left. 

The remaining men were going pale, going clammy with sweat, jerking back and shouting in fear. Their eyes went so wide they bulged, and one of them dropped his bayonet, sending it clattering across the ground. Remus laid on the ground and laughed and laughed. It was as though they had all been infected by a contagion that left Logan untouched, each person catching it from the next and growing more and more hysterical with fright. 

The commander snarled, mostly unaffected. Logan felt a flicker of interest. “You _bastard!_ Cheap tricks, that’s all these are. As soon as he’s dead, all of this will disappear with him.”

“Oh, will they?” Remus asked from the ground, and his legs fell down the chimney one by one, ambulating over to him and twitching into place. The apparition stood shakily, grinning with all his teeth. “I’d like to see that. Wouldn’t you like to see that, Soldier Boy? These guys think they’re gonna kill you and get out of here! They don’t know there’s a traitor among them! They don't even see how he's leveling his bayonet at the back of their _necks.”_

The guardsmen fired again. Logan hit the ground, covering his head, but felt no impacts; one of the men fell, instead, pierced through the back by a spurting bullet wound. “He wanted to kill me,” the man beside him was shrieking, “he always wanted to kill me, he knew about the gambling--”

“You idiot!” the commander shrilled, whirling on him, “what have I trained you for? None of this is--”

“Why so angry?” the apparition cut in, slithering up beside him. The commander jerked back, swinging his blade, but Remus caught it and cackled, black blood gushing down his palm. “You wanted him dead anyway. You want to kill your men all the time. You told the baron they were useless and would die in their first real battle, but that’s not all of it, is it? You watched them while they slept. You thought about putting your grandfather’s knife through their throats. You want to kill them _all,_ the useless whelps. It's right there in your eyes. If they look closely, they can see it too.”

“Captain?” one of the guardsmen babbled.

“I _fucking_ knew it."

“You _idiots--_ don’t believe it, that’s what it wants you to do, you can’t listen--”

“But you’ve always hated us, you had Werner flogged to _death!_ ”

“Hey, Soldier Boy,” the apparition whispered in Logan’s ear, so close he could smell the decay in his breath. “Better close your eyes for this next part. Don’t want you going mad, do we?”

Logan nodded, shutting his eyes until the spirit moved away-- until the screams started. 

Then he opened them to watch the guardsmen tear each other to pieces, one throwing up pus and blood until he collapsed, the second screaming as his ribs tore outwards through his skin, the third whirling on his commander and strangling him as his own eyes melted in a rush of retinal viscera. 

The men died, filling Logan with relief. He wouldn’t have wanted Virgil executed for helping him.

He stepped gingerly over their corpses to Remus; the apparition was hunched over the last of them, slurping the liquidated eyes with a barbed, elongated tongue. 

“Thank you,” Logan said, because Remus had saved his life. 

The illusion faded around them, leaving them in darkness. The chamber air was thick with blood. Remus’s eyes glowed faintly in the black, his silhouette limned with barely perceptible light. “Better go now,” the apparition said, cocking his head. “If you wait till tomorrow, he’ll just send more people. You might die then.”

“Very well.” Logan stepped toward the exit, then paused, something inexplicable tightening his chest. “Will you remain here?”

“Uh, _yeah_. I’m stuck here forever, it’s a whole boring thing! Nothing ever happened until you came along. I didn’t even get to kill people for two hundred _years_.”

Logan swallowed, that unnameable thing making its way into his throat. “Is that your only desire?"

“What, killing things?”

Logan nodded, frowning at the ground. He could barely make out the circle beneath the blood and corpses, but he knew it was there; he had memorized the elaborate design the day before. “Are you able to create light?” The hearth reappeared. “Thank you. It has occurred to me that I could be said to owe you a debt for your actions today.”

“Oh, yeah?” The apparition was suddenly much, much closer. “Like a _sexy_ debt? ‘Cause I can get on my knees right here and _whoa,_ what’re you doing _.”_

Logan had pulled open his shirt with one hand, and had dipped the other one into the blood pooling on the floor. With great concentration he drew a red circle on his torso, just at his solar plexus, and began filling it in. Remus crowded up to stare at him, eyes wide and manic in the false firelight. 

“That’s my circle,” he breathed.

“Correct.” Logan took a few minutes to add the finishing touches, adjusting his motions to compensate for drawing the circle upside down. “If there is another step required to transfer your consciousness over to this circle, please complete it. I can assure you that there will be plenty of people to kill in the army.”

“But you’ll have me with you,” the apparition said. “You’ll always have me with you. I’ll haunt you every night, and dog your footsteps more closely than a shadow. You’ll never escape me.”

“I’m aware,” Logan said, wiping the blood off on his coat. His cheek still bled, dripping blood over the edge of his jaw. His coat was covered in dust and gunpowder. “That is only one benefit of this course of action.”

“The last time took a death,” Remus said, inching closer, “and I already killed all those other guys! Even the ones who got cut off when you exploded shit.”

“Do none of these count?” Logan asked. “I intended for all of them to die one way or another, once they entered this room.”

“ _Did_ you?” Remus asked, sounding delighted. “That’s perfect! Almost as perfect as getting to melt the nonexistent marrow of that guy’s eyes. Do you really mean it?”

“I do not lie,” Logan said, getting irritated at the repeated questioning. The blood was an unpleasant sensation on his open chest. “I wear a cravat.”

“Those two things are completely fucking unrelated,” Remus said, and rushed forward to shove a corpse-cold hand against Logan’s solar plexus. Logan screamed, collapsing and curling over the circle, choking a curse past the agonizing, white-hot burning-- and then knelt there, panting, with the arcane lines of the brand steaming on his skin.

“Branded through the hypodermis,” the apparition said with glee. “To the muscle! You’re stuck with me forever now, Soldier Boy. You can’t get rid of me until worms eat away your skin, and even then, until they do, I’ll be _right beside you in the coffin.”_ Remus pressed their noses together, staring into Logan’s eyes. “Regret it yet?”

“No,” Logan said, drawing back so he could stop crossing his eyes when he looked at him. “Will you help me find my pack? If it’s still storming outside, now would be the ideal time to depart.”

“‘Cause it’ll be super dramatic?”

“Because it will wash the blood from my boots, and the gunpowder from my coat,” Logan said forbiddingly, and turned on his heel to leave the room. He passed more contorted bodies on the way to the true hearth room. Remus flowed through the shadows beside him, entering the room as a ragged gray cat, and leaped onto his shoulders.

Logan’s chest ached, burns stinging. He buttoned his undershirt, shirt, and coat over them, hissing through his teeth; then he pulled his pack onto his shoulders, forcing the apparition to scramble for a foothold, and said, “Is there anything you wish to take from here?”

“The cards,” Remus said instantly. “And that rock over there in the corner! It’s my bestest friend.”

Logan sighed and took the rock and cards. 

Then he left through the front gates, stepping out under the storm-darkened skies, and disappeared with the gray cat into the rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: body horror, explosions, gory death, referenced death by flogging/execution

**Author's Note:**

> TW: none for this chapter!


End file.
